Chapter 2: It gives, it takes away, and it gives again.

After leaving my 9-to-5 job, on that very day, amidst the flurry of preparations, overflowing emotions, and accumulated stress, I received news from the workshop... Just the month before, I had been bikepacking around a very humid and tropical country like Costa Rica. To my surprise, the Nicoya Peninsula had done its part and broke the bearings in the headset. At that moment, I didn’t know what to do—I was completely in shock and feared the worst. The trip was already planned, and no one—neither the most experienced nor the least—changes their bike just before a trip, especially after testing all the equipment for a month and with full confidence. Life, being an incredible and unpredictable teacher, seemed to be asking me: “You wanted adventure? Well, here’s a serious shake-up from fate.”

With only a week left before the trip, I still didn’t know what to do with the bike. The process would take too long, so without hesitation, I contacted Alejo Bustamante (Scarab Team) and told him my story on a Friday morning. He said, “Let’s see what I can do.” A phrase that gnawed at my mind the whole time, to be honest. I spent the weekend at the Machete Gravel Race, and on Monday, I received a call. It was Alejo, who said, “Parce, bring up the bike with all the components and gear, and let’s see what we can do.” I replied, “Alright Alejo, I’m heading up to Scarab.”

To give you an idea, I live in Medellín, and Scarab is about 30 kilometers away, with just one small obstacle: a 15-kilometer uncategorized climb (Las Palmas). There was no way I was riding up that. Fortunately, as the saying goes, it's better to have friends than money. So, I called Zorro, another friend, to borrow his truck to make the climb and do the test. I grabbed my stuff, got in the car, and started driving through the city on a Colombian summer day in December, with the midday sun blazing. Suddenly, the car broke down, and I was stranded. “Damn it! Is this fate trying to stop me from traveling? Is this not the right time?” I had to shut down my thoughts. This was happening, no turning back. If there’s one thing the bike has taught me, it’s to push forward no matter what—to resolve issues one way or another.

When I arrived at Scarab, Santi and Alejo were waiting for me to test the setup and make the necessary adjustments so the bike would fit my travel needs and the goals I had for Patagonia. Finally, we found a frame that fit perfectly, like a glove. It was raw, without a drop of paint. Our only enemy was time, which was against us, but that’s beyond our control. The next day, I was flying to Bogotá to spend a couple of days with my family before the trip. I left the bike there, and one of the funniest things Alejo said to me was, “What color do you want it painted?” Wow, I was a bit shocked and said pink and dark blue, to which he responded, “Alright, let’s do it.” I believe it’s the fastest bike they’ve ever made, and I was lucky it turned out to be the Cotton Candy.

The adventure was back on track—one more obstacle overcome. Undoubtedly, by the time I arrived in Santiago, Chile, I felt like I had already ridden over the crest of the wave. It was time to relax, prepare everything, and start the journey. So, I prepared the bike setup, positioned everything, and took a spin around the block to make sure everything was in order. That’s when we had the first problem: the derailleur hanger had been bent at the airport—a hard knock that twisted it. Thanks, Avianca (Never change). More adventure and stress for the trip. The departure would be delayed by a few days. I had to search downtown Santiago, googling a lot, going from shop to shop to check things out. After hours of searching, I finally found a man downtown, Doctor-bike Cabalin—a man with a lot of experience who helped repair my bike and get everything back in place.

Now I was ready, I thought. How naive I was. With such a minimalist setup, I only had a pair of flip-flops. It turns out that in the rush to get from place to place, I tripped and stubbed my little toe. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. Damn it. Why me? What’s happening? Should I even go on this trip? Is this a sign? I spent a terrible night. My toe was swollen, and I could barely walk—right before departure. At that moment, I said, “Well, I have to start fighting against everything, against the tide, against it all. Nothing is within my control.” So that’s what I did. I rested for two days until my toe felt better, and now I was really ready for the adventure. Finally, on the road again!

The day before, I ate a lot, indulging in the last luxuries a metropolis like Santiago had to offer. I prepared everything. It was time for the first pedal stroke, the moment of truth. The setup was working, except for the sleeping bag, which was hitting the rear or front wheel depending on how I positioned it. I had to resolve that issue because it was my main defense against the cold in the south, which I honestly feared. I had to take care of it at all costs, so I decided to install a rack in Los Andes, the town right before crossing Los Libertadores, the most important and imposing pass of the entire trip. We were up against nothing less than Aconcagua, the highest mountain in our Andes range.

Once the rack issue was resolved, I was ready. My spirit was fiercely demanding adventure—the same fire that burned inside me when I was sitting in an office had transferred to the saddle of my bike. That same fire was now blazing, ready to consume me. I couldn’t wait a second longer; the anxiety was killing me. So, having overcome all the obstacles that the adventure—or the avalanche of emotions—had thrown my way, I was finally ready to sleep and wake up early to witness the first rays of sunshine in the southern Andes.

By Washedog,

Scarab friend and customer